


a strange circumstance

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Thor (Marvel), Extra Treat, M/M, Masturbation, Power Dynamics, Sex Work in Space, Sex Worker Thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-17 22:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “Come now." Thor smiles, small and curious. "Three times my initial offer - there must be something special you seek. Won’t you tell me? I would like to prove myself worthy of such a sum.”





	a strange circumstance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snickfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/gifts).



> Happy Chocolate Box, snickfic!

Heimdall travels the stars with little more than a blink. Countless lifetimes pass before him, ebbs and flows like waves to shore. Heimdall sees the innocence of babes and the crimes of wicked hearts. Uncelebrated valour draws Heimdall's attention, bravery and kindness unnoticed in their vast universe. But at times, his gift moves him in ways he does not expect. His eyes take him to poor corners, sordid dens, questionable deeds.

His glance crosses the mouth of one such establishment. Its clientele is too finely frocked, wealth feigned for a corner poorer than theirs. Here they select from an odd collection. The thin lad with a touch for the mystical, the ability to transform into one’s most debased desires. The woman, pale and strong, who beds only, she is not bedded.

Or a young man with a heavy boot kicked against the den's siding. A few pieces of blonde hair fall about his cheeks, the rest tied up. All by design, as is everything in the place. He has the body of a warrior, strong arms exposed, trousers snug around powerful legs.

The strong jaw cocks, and Heimdall finds his gaze met. Across miles they find each other, over towers and grazing forests. Young eyes soften a moment, an unasked question in their gleam. Then he smiles. “Got you.”

Heimdall closes his eyes before more can be said.

***

On a frigid night, Heimdall ventures beyond the palace. His hooded cloak is warm, though the wind bites his exposed cheeks and turns his breath to spirits. The sky is dark and clear, an open field of stars. It is peaceful beyond the kingdom’s walls, in the forests and beside the gentle shore. In the outskirts, it is less so.

It is true of any kingdom that some live better by fortune or by choice. Odin All-Father is a magnanimous king, and Asgard prospers under his rule. But some will always starve by no fault of their own, and some will gamble and drink away life's opportunities. Heimdall’s faith in Asgard is great, in its people even greater. But even his eyes cannot see a perfect future. Perfection is a prize too rare even for his home.

Laughter barks from nearby taverns, the glow of hearths soft from beneath wooden shutters. The streets are less filled than normal, thanks no doubt to the chill. A few flakes of snow drift dust-like to the ground. Into an empty barrel, a drunkard empties himself of dinner. Shrill laughter cackles from an open window. Boys past their bedtime scuttle by wearing mischievous grins and carrying twin sticks.

Against the wall of the den, boot propped against the siding, is the young man. His hair is tied back again, loose strands about his face. His leather shirt bears no sleeves, and his trousers fit to warrior legs. His cheeks and nose blush pink in the cold. Blue eyes angle down to graze the feet of passing strangers.

When Heimdall approaches, the young man frowns. Heimdall lowers his hood. “You must be cold,” he says.

“I know you,” the young man says. “You were watching me.”

“I meant no offense,” Heimdall tells him. “I see many.”

This brings a thoughtful noise. “Did I say I took offense?” The young man smiles; a wistful, odd thing. “I’ve drawn other looks, but none quite like yours.”

“My sight should go unnoticed,” Heimdall says.

“Well, it didn’t this time, did it?”

The evasive response does not move Heimdall. It is not as if he expects answers straight away. Or at all. Buried beneath this curiosity, he knows there is a deeper reason why he is here. Some nagging, hidden suspicion. Something that must be explored up close.

The young man has not lost interest despite their tension. He has a hungry gaze, one that craves more than this rough corner can provide.

“How fares your business this evening?” Heimdall asks.

A snort answers. “Slow with this frost. I hate the dull nights more than the bad.” He pauses. “Not that there are many bad nights,” he amends. “I make my money. I have no complaint.”

“Complaints are not treason.” Heimdall’s voice bears the smile his face does not.

“All treason starts with complaints, Watcher. You should know that, of all people.”

So, he does know to whom he speaks. Heimdall inclines his head, an acknowledgment. “What name do you go by?” he asks.

“Thor.”

“Your family name?”

“Can’t say I have one of those.” Thor heaves an exaggerated sigh. “A poor, orphaned bastard. Quite the stirring tale. They found me in the midst of of a great storm. Do you remember it, Watcher? The throne of Asgard shook from its thunder, or so the tale goes. That is how I was named, a sad babe tossed out under lightning that cracked the earth on which we stand.” His expression bears a flavor of bitterness that the young rarely taste.

A bastard forged of thunder. Eyes upon eyes. A strange circumstance. “What will it cost?” Heimdall asks.

“What?”

“A night with you. What will it cost?”

Thor’s face loses its practiced facade. “Is that why you’re here?”

“I have come to see you,” Heimdall says, “and I’ve taken enough of your time for free. The wind has picked up. It won’t be long before the snows come.”

A twinkle returns to Thor’s eyes. “Do you have a thing for nursing chilled bastards in warm beds, Watcher?” he teases.

“If you prefer this story, we can play by it,” Heimdall says.

Thor’s mirth slips with a small, petulant snort. He kicks from his reclined post against the den wall. “We are a universal establishment, you understand. Units are the currency here. 10,000 for the night. And I’ll-” his hand grazes Heimdall’s cloak, “let you pick the story. How about that?”

“I’ll triple your price,” Heimdall says.

Thor frowns. “What for? You want something out of the ordinary?”

“For your time, and your discretion,” Heimdall says. He plucks Thor’s hand away from his cloak. “Lead on, please.”

“Discretion. Right.” Thor’s frown deepens. He does not understand, and what he does not understand he wants to find offense with. But he cannot turn down funds, Heimdall sees this. An extra 20,000 units will mean much to one who lives on this soiled street.

Thor guides the way inside.

What the den lacks in ambiance, it makes up for in warmth. Fire crackles its welcome from the hearth, the room a comfortable dance of color. It is a clean entrance, unsullied by spilled mead or broken mugs. A pair of gentlemen sit by the fire, laughing with a lady of almond skin. She takes one of their beers and helps herself to it. From a far room, the gentle tapping of a bedpost rattles against the wall. Even this seems homey, a timekeeper for the establishment.

Heimdall spies the mystic and the pale woman seated together. Their resemblance is uncanny, and their quirked smiles follow Thor as he returns inside. Thor does not return their attention.

The entrance splits off into a set of stairs and a back hallway. Thor picks the stairs, creaking wooden things that seem in danger of giving under his boots.

At the top, Thor glances back, amusement rich on his boyish face. “What shall we play, Watcher?” he asks. “You who have seen so many - who captures your fancy? Who shall I be for you?”

“You shall be Thor,” Heimdall says.

Thor grins at his answer. “You see much, but you imagine nothing. What a tragedy.”

Thor opens the door at the far end of the upstairs hall. It is a stark room, bearing only a bed, single table, chair, and lamp. Thor lights it before closing the door behind them. Its metal latch creaks shut, a dull crack of the wooden hinge sliding into place.

“The air will stay warm for us here,” Thor says. He leans against the door, a practiced pose. “Come now." Thor smiles, small and curious. "Three times my initial offer - there must be something special you seek. Won’t you tell me? I would like to prove myself worthy of such a sum.”

Heimdall believes this to be true, not just an exaggeration of his roleplay. There is an eagerness to be worthy in Thor. A yearning for something that will never come from this room. Something he still seeks regardless.

Heimdall raises a stalling hand when Thor attempts to reach for him. “Show yourself to me,” he says.

Thor’s smile turns playful. “Haven’t you seen me already, Watcher?”

“All of you,” Heimdall says. Thor's smile grows.

He would be the crown jewel of any army. One to make civilizations rise or fall. His face slopes down, strands of blonde hair tumbling. Thor makes a show of his trouser laces. His fingers are well-worked, large hands nimble with leather threads.

Thor displays a beautiful body. His legs live up to the strength promised by his trousers. His cock sits soft, yet already a fine size.

“Lower your hair,” Heimdall says.

As directed, Thor removes the twine. His blonde strands spill down, a gentle slope where the tie bound. Thor shakes a hand through his hair. It washes over his bare shoulders and kisses his collarbone.

Nude as a newborn, Thor drinks down the sight of Heimdall before him. “Shall I help you join me?” he asks.

“Do you have something to prepare yourself with?”

Thor chuckles. “Of course.” From the room’s single table, he produces a jar filled with a clear oil. Its mouth is corked shut, the glass sphere-shaped. “How would you like me?” he asks, purred with sweet affect. “I’m told I am quite strong, yet I bend as many seem to like. What do you fancy, Watcher? If I am to be Thor, I must know you too, at least a little.”

Heimdall looks upon every inch of him. He takes his time, gaze tasting every ridge, until he draws confused laughter. “Have you spent 30,000 units to touch only with your eyes?”

“Lie down,” Heimdall says, “on your back.” Thor hums approval and sprawls on his back as directed.

Heimdall’s gaze has fallen on wonders as beautiful. Bodies too exquisite to linger on, treasures not meant for Heimdall's all-seeing eyes. But Thor's beauty is more than his handsome looks. He moves with easy confidence that lesser men would train to achieve. Restrained power flexes between his shoulders and extends from thighs that open willingly.

Thor smiles up at Heimdall. “Won't you join me, Watcher?”

“Touch yourself,” Heimdall says.

Thor's confidence slips. “You really won't join me? Have I done something wrong?” At Heimdall's head shake, Thor's frown deepens. “Am I not to your liking then?”

Heimdall cannot help his smile. “Is my gaze lacking favor?” he asks.

Thor huffs from the bed. “You would show favor if you joined me,” he grumbles.

“I show favor from where I stand,” Heimdall tells him. “Touch yourself. Please.” Thor regards Heimdall for a moment longer with soft eyes and a curious frown.

A dazzling smirk replaces both. Thor makes a show of slicking his fingers. Eyelids at half-mast, Thor gazes down the length of the bed at Heimdall. He wraps his hand around himself.

Thor is unaccustomed to performing in this way. He proceeds with enthusiasm, grand sighs as he provokes himself to hardness. The organ itself is impressive, its thickened girth a deeper shade as his blood gathers and warms. But the show lacks the ease of practice. Thor utters, “Feels so good,” in so soft a voice that Heimdall reads the embarrassment in him.

Thor is used to the touch of others; being bid to do things, or bid to accept things done to him. As the center of his own solo performance, he is uncertain, though he tries valiantly to seem anything but. The smile he wears, though strained, never falters. When he gazes at Heimdall, it is with warm, inviting eyes.

Heimdall watches Thor as attentively. He notes the tight-fisted squeeze Thor favors at the base of his cock. How his thumb urges the rim, drawing a shudder from his thighs. Thor’s hand drifts at times to his balls, which he teases between oil-slick fingers. Though his performance lacks, he does like his own touch. Satisfaction glows in his warmed face.

Eyes never straying, Heimdall unlaces his cloak and drapes it along the back of the chair. Their gazes meet as Heimdall peels his tunic from his shoulders. “Prepare yourself,” Heimdall instructs.

Thor’s laugh wavers. “You’re a man of few words, aren’t you?”

He makes a show of slicking his hands with more oil. Thor rucks up his knees, thighs spread wide. His hole is pink as a virgin’s blush, puckered in anticipation. With one hand still squeezed around his cock, Thor slips an oil-coated finger into himself.

Here too, Thor lacks practice. The grit look that comes to his face is one of confusion before he remembers to school himself. Thor is not used to touching himself in this way. He struggles with the angle, fumbling to curl his wrist even as he lets out an exaggerated purr.

Heimdall removes his boots and sets them beside the table. The wooden floorboards are cold despite the promise of warmth upstairs. Thor himself is not immune. Flushed though his skin is, little goosebumps blister his arms and legs.

Thor adds a second finger to the first and drops his head back with and affected gasp. Heimdall restrains a smile. He knows Thor will take the endearment the wrong way.

“Describe yourself,” Heimdall says, as he begins to unlace the front of his slacks.

“What?” Thor’s eyes have been on Heimdall’s fingers.

“Describe how you feel,” Heimdall says. “It will help to prepare me.”

“Oh.” Another thing Thor is not accustomed to. Thor’s expression shifts in thought. “I, uh, I feel...tight, yes.” Thor scissors two fingers inside himself. Their squelching sound is obscene, something - from Thor’s smirk - he is rather proud of. “Tight,” he reemphasizes, getting into the act. “And warm, so very warm. And with the oil, so wet and willing. I am ready for you to join me.”

“You are not,” Heimdall tells him as he rolls his trousers down his thighs. He steps from them when they pool on the floor boards.

Thor fixes on his cock. It is a sight, Heimdall gathers, that pleases the young one. It may be an act, but given Thor’s lack of finesse in the art of performance, Heimdall believes Thor’s interest is true.

“I am not,” Thor agrees. “This would go a bit faster if you were to help me.”

“It would, yes.” Heimdall retrieves the oil from Thor’s bedside, and Thor’s expression turns hopeful.

He sours when Heimdall brings his wet hand to his own cock. “Don’t you want me to prepare you myself?” He puts on a jaunty grin. “My mouth is quite up to the task.”

“Your mouth's duty,” Heimdall reminds him, “is to describe how you feel.” He palms himself, standing over Thor’s body.

With a frustrated grunt, Thor resumes, three fingers now arched inside himself. He delves them in, a twitch jumping through his hips. He gasps and blinks a few times in succession. “Feels good,” he whispers.

Heimdall hums agreement. He strokes himself, eyes never straying from Thor’s arousal-dazed expression. “What feels good?” he asks.

“Being, ah, filled.” Heimdall hears every wet slide of Thor’s fingers. “I will fit you so well, Watcher,” Thor vows, pleasure-thick. “You will find me worthy, I swear.”

“Will I?” Heimdall takes in the deep blush on Thor’s cheeks. The color extends through his chest and flushes his sex.

“Yes.” The word hisses from between grit teeth. Thor’s thrust draws a moan and a quiver. “Good," he rasps, "but not enough. Nine- how long will you make me wait for you?”

He is improving, Heimdall notes with a fond smile. “Do you suffer without my touch?”

Another thrust and a deep, shuddering groan. Thor buries his face against his pillow. He is definitely improving, and beautiful despite the exaggerations. Still holding himself, Heimdall strokes Thor’s hair and feels his feverish face with the back of a hand. Thor takes the contact with a grateful sigh. He nuzzles Heimdall’s palm, licking his fingers, rubbing his nose against the heel. “Please?” he asks.

Heimdall joins Thor at last. “Keep your hand on yourself,” he says.

As instructed, Thor continues to touch himself. His breaths come in short, shallow pants as he gazes down the bed at Heimdall. Thor has made himself loose, oil glistening from the rim of his softened hole. “How would you like me?” Thor asks, a touch winded. “On all fours, or-”

“As you are,” Heimdall says. “I would see your face.”

Amusement warms Thor’s eyes. “A watcher to last,” he teases.

His gaze sinks to the thickness Heimdall massages between his fingers. Thor drags his tongue across his lips, unrestrained in his hunger. Weaker-willed persons would fall apart at the sight.

Eyes on what awaits him, Thor drags a slow hand up his own girth. His waist snaps forward, and a groan leaves his lips. “I would suggest you hurry,” he purrs. “Mmm...I'd like to wait for you, but I feel so good, you see.”

“Yes,” Heimdall agrees. “I see many things.” He spreads Thor's thighs with casual hands, pressing until Thor's knees jut out in a stretch. Thor rocks his hips up as he strokes himself over his stomach.

In description, it turns out Thor has not exaggerated. He is tight as promised, a great glove of strength for Heimdall to fill. His body's power only serves to heighten this pleasure. Thor grins at Heimdall's face. “I told you,” he sighs. Cocky as his reaction is, he sounds relieved.

“Worthy indeed,” Heimdall murmurs, and he sheaths himself in full. Thor's head dips back in pleasure.

It is an easy thing to have Thor. Thor has the body of royalty and the shine of a maiden's hair. Thick thighs and a warm kiss to his skin. He fits like the finest leather, and he reacts just enough. Thor sighs and hisses with deep, low moans. No theatrics to pull Heimdall from his enjoyment.

Thor's knees sandwich Heimdall's sides. They squeeze around him often, spurred by deep thrusts or his own clever squeezes. He smiles at the way Heimdall palms hair from his face and drags slow, admiring fingers down his throat.

Heimdall handles Thor roughly because he knows Thor can withstand it. Every snapped thrust jolts Thor’s entire body, and his ocean eyes glow with enjoyment. Heimdall tests Thor’s flexibility, makes him curl his back so severely that a soft whine pulls from Thor’s throat. “Forgive me,” Thor gasps; the sound is not in his normal repertoire it seems.

“Have I hurt you?” Heimdall slows, a tender thumb across Thor's cheek.

Thor turns towards his touch. “No,” he breathes. “I would tell you. No, no, keep going.”

The bed taps the wall in gentle time with every movement. Pleasure swells in Heimdall’s gut. He is well-satisfied, warm and enveloped by so fitting a sheath. But he seeks still, watching Thor’s face. He urges Thor to move, a slight turn, an angle of his hips.

Heimdall holds Thor’s knee to his side and buries himself. Deep - yes, deep enough. A strangled cry rips from Thor’s lips. He squeezes his eyes shut, stomach clenched and trembling. “Sorry,” he babbles. “Sorry, you- _ah_!”

“Have I hurt you?” Heimdall asks again. He stills, burrowed deep, bodies fixed so close. Heimdall knows the place he’s found, he feels it in the tremor that rocks Thor’s entire body.

“No,” Thor insists in a rough, slurring whisper. “No, Watcher, you- Nine, _please move_.”

Heimdall does not move, beyond squeezing Thor’s shaking knee. “You’ve stopped touching yourself,” he reminds gently.

A laugh whispers with desperation from Thor’s lips. “You’ve paid 20,000 extra units to...to kill me, I see…”

Heimdall rocks himself forward, torturously slow. Even his slightest movement squishes with oil. Thor trembles around him, whimpering as he claws at the bed. He’s dropped the hand from his cock, blushed red and neglected.

Heimdall takes up the task in a warm hand. He squeezes the base of Thor’s shaft and urges him between their bellies. Pressed so close, Heimdall feels Thor’s exhales burst out of him.

Thor's long limbs twitch, a wriggle as he tries to ease pleasure driven relentlessly into him. Heimdall follows him with a coaxing stroke. He thumbs the rim of Thor's cock and pumps him in short fists. Thor catches a lip between his teeth.

Fondly, Heimdall squeezes his knee, then pushes as far as Thor’s body will allow. Thor’s back goes full-straight. His lip pops from his mouth with a deep, shuddering moan. His waist snaps, and his seed spills in pearled strands all over his stomach.

Thor’s body is unbearably tight. Heimdall follows him until he no longer can, then he withdraws into his own hands. “Nnn- No, no,” Thor fumbles, as Heimdall sighs his release. It is a heavy, calming moment. Peace weighs Heimdall’s body to the bed, even as Thor‘s protests stutter to him. “Why did you- you should have-”

Heimdall sets feet on the chilled floorboards. “Where do you keep your cloths?” he asks.

“What?” Thor blinks at him past heavy, lowered lids. He struggles to get himself upright. “The table, I’ll- sit, I will-”

Thor has barely gotten himself to a seated position by the time Heimdall returns with a clean set of cloths. His own spend wiped clean, he turns to Thor, gentle with his softening, seed-damp cock. His cum-stained stomach follows.

“I can do that,” Thor protests, making an attempt on the fabric. Heimdall evades his drowsy reach and descends between his legs. Thor’s asshole is loose and gaping, glistening with oil. He is still sensitive, and every touch makes him gasp.

“Did you pay such a grand sum to do my job for me?” Thor asks. His words are light, but uncertainty clouds his expression. “I was unworthy of you after all.” Shame colors his cheeks.

Heimdall regards him with amusement. “I assure you, I am quite satisfied.”

“Then why did you not end with me?” Thor demands. He may have grown up in this unforgiving business, but he has kept his pride, and that pride can still be hurt. His glare becomes slumped shoulders. “You may...adjust your promised sum if you are not pleased with the service you received.”

Heimdall raises a hand to Thor’s neck, his thumb a gentle swipe across his throat. It is forward of him, discouraged in such a transaction, but he covers Thor’s lips with his own. Thor’s mouth is soft and surprised. When Thor swallows, his throat bobs beneath Heimdall's thumb.

“I am quite satisfied,” Heimdall says again. He smiles at Thor’s expression: utterly dazed, glassy eyes and a part to kiss-reddened lips.

Heimdall rises to dress. Satisfied indeed - his movements are slow, weighed down by the weariness of a night well spent. Beyond the shuttered windows, the winter wind howls. Heimdall prepares himself with cloak bundled tight. He expects to exit to fresh snow.

From the bed, Thor watches him. Confusion forms a gentle ‘v’ between his brows. “Will you still turn your gaze towards our corner from time to time?” he asks.

“I will,” Heimdall assures him.

“And...will you return?”

Heimdall inclines his head in a parting bow. “Only for the pleasure of your company, if you welcome repeat business.”

“I do,” Thor insists quickly. “Next time, I will be worthy of you, Watcher. You will not have a chance to dismiss me before your end.” A grin lights his face, the pleasure of a challenge waged.

Heimdall chuckles. “We will see.”

***

It is a blustering winter day when the King of Asgard crosses the Bifrost to the keeper of its gate. Odin greets Heimdall with a nod as he dismounts his steed. Two guards wait beside the grand, white horse as Odin proceeds inside. “You summoned me on a matter of some urgency,” he says.

Heimdall folds his hands respectfully behind himself, his helmeted head lowered in deference. “A matter of interest, perhaps. Or perhaps not. I will leave that to your discretion, my king.”

“What matter?” Odin asks.

“Some years ago, there was a great storm,” Heimdall tells him. “I remember it well. It was one of the most violent in the history of these lands. The skies roared as if screaming its rage against Asgard. Lightning splintered trees and carved lines into our walls. The towns flooded with torrential rain, and many crops were lost.”

Odin pauses in his stroll. “I remember it,” he says.

“A bastard child was born on this day,” Heimdall says. “A boy who is now a young man. A man of great strength, of power only few can boast.”

Slow tension twitches through Odin’s fingers. “You’ve met this boy.”

Heimdall inclines his head. “My gaze happened upon him. And his happened upon me.”

Odin’s expression does not change. “I see,” he says.

“Perhaps this is of interest to my king,” Heimdall says. He faces the two guards waiting out of hearing distance. “Perhaps it is not. It is my duty to inform you of such anomalies.”

“It is.” Odin turns from him as well. He pause with one foot on the rainbow bridge. “Bring the boy to me,” he says. “I wish to meet him.”

“My king,” Heimdall replies. He bows his head, and keeps it lowered until the galloping steps of the the All-Father's steed fade into nothing.

*The End*


End file.
